The Ingoldsby Lyrics | ||
The Relic;
Or, the Antiquary and the Patriot.
A CANTERBURY TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT.
This story owes its origin to the exuberant loyalty of a certain Justice Jacks, an inhabitant of Lowestoft. When George II., in the course of one of his voyages from Germany, was driven by stress of weather on the coast of Suffolk, he landed and slept a night under the roof of the delighted Justice. This event is still (1818) recorded by an inscription on the mantel-piece in the room occupied by the Monarch; while the “curiosity” which forms the subject of the poem, properly labelled, long after made a conspicuous figure in Mr. Jacks's museum. At his death it descended with the rest of his collection of rarities to his daughters, two maiden ladies, in whose possession it was seen by the gentleman (the Rev. — Warburton, rector of Lydd) from whom I had the anecdote. R. H. B.
CANTO I.
To sit on the Marine Parade at Brighton,
And gaze upon the sea some stormy day
When from the Steyne the beaux huge rain-drops frighten,
To hear the thunder roll, and see it lighten
Round the toss'd vessels labouring in the bay;
And, as their masts appear to bore the sky there,
Cry “Ah, poor devils! rather you than I ther e
With glowing wheels think mighty pretty sport,
Some—Wellington for one—enjoy a battle,
Others prefer a minuet at Court;
Some, like the great 'Squire Coke, delight in cattle,
Ploughs, Porkers, and Merino Wool—in short
Tastes vary, which may elsewhere well be seen, as
In Horace, book i. ode I, “To Mecænas.”
If some than others take a wider scope,
And, when they once are fairly mounted, ride 'em
What Geoff: Gambado calls au grand Galop?
(O'Connell and Dick Shiel, we can't abide 'em,
Last summer made a pony of the Pope;
This in parenthesis) meanwhile few carry on
A tort more briskly than your Antiquarian—
An hour by the clock on some old pot or pan,
Proving its lid the absolute shield of Hector,
Gog, Fin M'Coul, or some such mighty man;
Of Roman coins (so called), a great Collector,
With porcelain demi-devils from Japan,
A porer o'er each old (or new) inscription,
Coptic or Cockney, Runic or Egyptian.
The plain brown bob and specs with shagreen cases,
The ample vest, the ginger-colour'd smalls
That scorn'd the adventitious aid of braces;
The massive buckle which each foot enthrals
In sober radiance, a bright oasis
On the dark desert of the well-black'd shoe;
(A metaphor, we fear, not over new).
'Tis good to be particular in tenses,
Since to be hinted at as Bore or Quiz
To many matter of most grave offence is,
Producing great contortions of the phiz,
And disavowals are esteem'd pretences;
'Tis best the Present therefore to eschew,
And use the Perfect or the Preter-plu.
(Passion, I might say, 'twas in him so furious,)
Things rare and precious, modern or antique;
And, though in other matters most penurious,
He'd rather far go dinnerless a week
Than fail to appropriate ought he fancied curious
In earth, or sea, or air—no matter what,
So it was old, and others had it not.
Of various ugly, odd, old-fashioned things,
Such as, when duly labelled for inspection,
Make Virtuosi happier far than kings,
Though void of meaning, order, or connection;
One can't tell how or whence their value springs,
Whether intrinsic, or from some relation
Extraneous, which Locke calls Association;
A piece of Pig-tail chew'd by Captain Cook;
An idol worshipp'd by the Calmuc Tartars,
A Gong, and an Arcadian Shepherd's Crook;
King David's Tuning-hammer, Nell Gwyn's Garters,
With here and there some queer black-letter Book;
The Editio princeps of Tom Sternhold's Psalter,
Guy Vaux's Lanthorn, and Jack Thurtell's Halter.
A group of cock-tail'd kittens and their mother,
A Chinese Joss, a pair of Scottish Mulls,
Used by King Malcom Canmore and his brother;
Lord Russell's Breeches, one of Cromwell's Skulls,
(Oxford and Naseby each can boast another,
We've seen them, Reader, and 'twill pose you, when you in-
Spect them, to say which of the three's most genuine).
The spoils of many a neighbouring monument;
A piece of granite, chipt from off the chair
In which they whilom crown'd the Kings of Kent,
A stone from Becket's shrine, a fragment rent
From the proud surcoat, which sublime in air
Waves o'er Black Edward's tomb, the very dress he
Skewer'd certain French in on the Field of Cressy.
More modern there were some, as lately hinted,
A Mustard-pot of George the Third's, a Plate
With coronet and crest thereon imprinted,
Used by Lord North when Minister of State;
The glass through which John Wilkes, the Patriot, squinted,[OMITTED]
By Hunt and Probert driv'n to Gills Hill Lane,
A tail from Harry Brougham's forensic wig,
A thimble used by Ferdinand of Spain;
Also the Os coccygis of Tom Paine,
Which Cobbett at New York contriv'd to dig;
A relic of Napoleon too, I mean a
Button O'Meara brought from St. Helena.
That Mister Jones (his name), with all his priggery,
Was Radically giv'n; I must confess
He had acquired a trifling spice of Whiggery,
And once (long since) concocted an Address,
Which, fully bent on cutting no small figure, he
Had stuffed with “Injured Queen,” “heart-rending woe,’
And quantum sufficit of “Unsunn'd Snow.”
For patriotism and patriotic men,
He almost worshipp'd them, and thought it hard
They were so scarce; five miles, or even ten,
He'd walk at any time, so his reward
Might be to see a patriot—fancy then
His joy one day, when some kind neighbour went
And told him Joseph was come into Kent.
Who some four thousand years ago at Cairo
Drove Mrs. Potiphar exceeding mad,
And afterwards was Premier to King Pharaoh;
Nor he whose works in folio my grand-dad
Priz'd far 'bove those of Flaccus or of Maro,
Josephus, of the self-same name and nation,
(Till he abjured them both to please Vespasian).
I do not speak of Buonaparte's brother,
Whom Wellington sent packing out of Spain,
Nor him at Long's once lock'd up by his mother,
Miss Foote's pea-green pretender, Joseph Hayne,
Nor Joe Grimaldi, sire or son—another
And greater far I mean, him whom in France
They'd call The Joseph, The par excellence.
Had all the Ready Reckoner at command,
And, having been a sort of Sub-Physician,
Now came to test the water of the Land,
Which he pronounced in a most vile condition,
So bad in fact 'twas clear things could not stand;
The antipous of Leibnitz, still his song
Ran ever thus, “Whatever is is wrong.”
In faith I must apostrophise ye here!
Without ye what were man? what conversation
Could e'er subsist o'er Port, Gin-twist, or Beer,
(According to the tippler's taste and station)?
Without your aid useless the human ear;
Without it useless too the human tongue—
One can't discuss the weather all day long.
(In City phrase we speak), had wanted bread,
Through every age since first the Conqu'ring Norman
Shot Harold (not the Pilgrim) through the head:
What were O'Shiel, O'Connell, and O'Gorman,
And the other O.'s who make ye now a trade,
Without ye?—Cobbett with his corn so boasted?
Or Hunt with his—one raw, the other roasted?
Your Pegasus has a vile trick of bolting;
'Tis bad, indeed it is, this breaking loose,
Digressions are in general revolting;
But always when one's looking after news,
So pull your curb up sharp, Ma'am, rein your colt in,
And turn his head to Wright's Hotel, the Fountain,
Where you'll find Jones, and Joseph just dismounting.
CANTO II.
Is call'd the civilest place in all the Isle,
And Jones resolved it should not lose a whit
Of character through him; his civilest smile,
He brought to greet the patriot without guile,
And cried while making a profound salam,
“You're the Great Patriot, Sir?”—Quoth Joe, “I am.”
Said Jones, and now again he bow'd his back,
“We've few like you” (once more his body bent,
“Fame like the wind” (his ‘Gingers’ gave a crack,)
“Resistless when it once hath found a vent,
Hath far and wide blown your great reputation
For counting, casting up, and calculation;
A Patriot I do love, alive or dead;
And, if you'll deign to visit my poor house,
I will essay to furnish forth a ‘spread’
Fit for a Scotchman—there's a brace of grouse,
Some cocky-leeky, and a sing'd sheep's-head;
I fear a pudding boiled in a bag is
A sorry substitution for a haggis.”
Knew well “a pin a day's a groat a year,”
And that “a dinner sav'd 's a dinner got,”
Then his mouth watered at the dainty cheer.
Nor I—but Joseph doth—besides 'tis clear
That, though in Magna Charta he delights,
He somehow can't endure a Bill of Wright's.
And piety alike renown'd o'er all,
Penzance's Pride, the Reverend Boatswain Smith,
Hears to a “Love Feast,” an “harmonious call”;
Not with more pleasure Sisters Fry and Frith
Enraptured listen to his holy drawl,
Than Joseph lent an ear to this kind proffer,
At once embracing Jones and Jones's offer.
Exhibits his long chronicle of stews,
His fish from turbot down to humble plaice,
His roast and boil'd, fricandeaux and ragouts,
All the varieties o' the feather'd race,
Goose, spring-chick, duckling—Joseph doth refuse;
“I'll thank you, Sir”—these were his sole commands—
“To get some water just to wash my hands.”
But much like that of Ponto, Don, or Rover,
A shake, a wipe, five fingers through the hair
(If any hair there be), and all is over;
That Joseph soon was ready to break cover,
So, taking Jones's arm, the pair withdrew,
Sam and his waiter looking rather blue.
“The devil sends cooks,” they add, and quite as truly,
If Scotland be design'd the place in quo,
And Janet, Jones's “help,” had come but newly
To Christendom direct from “Edinbro”;
Of course that day the genial banquet duly
With “crowdy,” “collops,” “haggis,” was supplied,
And Heaven knows how much nastiness beside.
Fancy the filth remov'd, and all the dwelling,
Like ropes of rotten onions in the sun,
Of these most “villainous rank compounds” smelling.
Fancy the whisky-toddy just begun—
And Jones in ecstacy while Joseph's telling
The abuses he intends to “sweep away,”
And all the good he means to do—some day.
Confiscate her revenues to the nation;
Instead of tythe and offering and all that,
As soon as he has finished his oration,
The clerk shall carry round the parson's hat,
Collecting halfpence from the congregation,
And in the open air—no church or steeple—
'Twill make him more respected by the people.
As they've been handed down to us by our mothers,
‘Each man's the best judge of his own affair;’
And what then can he want with any others?
So we'll get rid of all the ‘learned brothers,’
And all their superfluity of hair;
Coifs, gowns, and robes—in fact, despite of Guelph,
I mean to do away with Law itself.
Buz, bush, and bird's nest, such as Parr's and Paley's,
Those too in which the lawyers ‘queer the prigs,’
Fine full forensic ones ‘wi' sma' wee tailies,’
‘The family’ will merry be as grigs
Freed from all fear of Park and both the Old Baileys;
All powerless then to ‘Brixtonise’ or gibbet 'em,
While every man may live—and thieve ad libitum.
He sees his host has dropt into a doze
Tranquilly sound, an inference which he draws
From the deep respirations of his nose;
At once he brings abruptly to a close
His lengthy lecture upon wigs and laws—
Then transfers to his pocket, without any stir,
Some dozen lumps of sugar from the canister.
Unto his oratorical display,
Just as he was proceeding to make known
(A fact we don't get hold of every day)
The best mode of expending a Greek loan—
He snatches up his hat and walks away:
Telling the curtseying Janet, as he past her
In the hall, “by no means to disturb her master.”
That Jones, who had been dreaming of the devil,
Woke in a fright; but when he cast his eye
On Joseph's chair, presentiment of evil,
Flash'd on his mind, he felt how “d—d uncivil”
A quiet snooze seems to a sitter by;
Then too his friend's retreat had spoil'd his plan,
“Janet!” he roars, “why where's the gentleman?”
Without one “frail memorial” left behind;
Away he trotted at his utmost speed
Back to the Fountain, much disturbed in mind
That after all he should so ill succeed,
Nor bear away a relic of some kind
From this the pink of patriot perfection,
To add unto his “rich and rare” collection.
Or any little thing by way of sample;
His very shoe-string had been quite enough,
His cotton pocket-handkerchief most ample,
Or some more trifling article, for example,
The pins he found and stuck upon his cuff.
But he has pass'd—a vision of the night,
A meteor gleam, as transient and as bright.
So all that Jones can do's to catechise
The chambermaid and waiters, to discover
If he had left aught which might be a prize.
A shilling, given to either one or t'other,
Identified, were precious in his eyes.
Alas! he had only given a nod to Sam,
To chambermaid a kiss, to “boots” a d—n.
When Betty, chambermaid, at length bethought her,
“Perhaps there's something in the dressing-room?”
Fired at the thought, around the neck he caught her;
Then rush'd and saw to dissipate his gloom,
Where stood a trifling modicum of water,
The same in which, so Betty doth insist,
The Patriot had lately wash'd his fist.
Feels when he grasps a patient's glittering fee,
Oh! scarce more rapture, Paton, queen of song,
Pouring the full tide of her harmony,
Darts through each breast amidst the listening throng,
Than Jones experienced, as in ecstasy
He sprang upon the fluid, seized the tottle,
And cork'd it up securely in a bottle.
It stands his richest gem; and daily press
Sage antiquaries round to gaze and con it,
And Mister Ellis that great A. S. S.
Hath promised to write a paper on it.
Samuel Wright, Esq., the worthy host of an excellent tavern, where you are sure of good entertainment “whether you are a man or a horse.” He is, we believe, the natu maximus of a triumvirate of brothers who for many years past “Each in a separate Kentish town Have kept the Ship, the Fountain, and the Crown!”
The Ingoldsby Lyrics | ||